Bonjour~

For the past two months (and with two and a half months left to go), I have been on the trip of a lifetime…quite possibly the trip of several lifetimes. I have visited famous monuments, had my eyes opened by ancient places, and been humbled by the majesty of architectural and historical masterpieces.

Barcelona housed Gaudi’s creative genius, the bustling boardwalk of the Barcoloneta, Las Ramblas with its quirky talents and throng of tourists, and a breathtaking cathedral beyond compare. Istanbul offered the glory of the Hagia Sophia, the blessing of the sacred Blue Mosque, and the overwhelming sensory overload of the Grand Bazaar. Upon arrival to each city, I never wasted one moment before I was out the door in search of these awe-inspiring places that I had been hearing about (and dreaming of) since childhood. So, naturally I get to Paris and I follow the same pattern, right? Well, * not exactly *…

I have been in Paris a total of one full day thus far. One single day filled with what I call “little sweet nothings.” --Rambling walks with no particular destination in mind; Naked wrists with no schedule or agenda for which to "dress." Piping hot morning coffee cups, left to cool (in lieu of conversation and communion) to lukewarm liquids. Half-eaten pastries (the first portion being so sublimely satisfying, it rendered the second irrelevant). A "peasant's picnic" in the park –a simple feast consisting of fresh produce from the curb market and mouth-watering fromagerie brie spread on what could only be the closest thing to manna from heaven found on this side of the clouds…the French baguette. Morning runs, soaking up the stillness of a sleeping city. Nights on fire, lit with a glow that only shining, joyous people (not lanterns) can emit. Sidewalks littered with cafes, peppered with patrons watching passersby…every once in awhile you will hear a friendly “Bonjour” offered between neighbors, or catch a snippet of a shared smile among strangers. “Bonjour,” meaning literally “Good Day” in French…* and it was. *

Just Like The Moon~

Barcelona

I awoke early. Bouncing out of bed, I was eager to get to know you. You slept. You made me wait. I tried to go back to sleep and be patient, yet I felt restless...listless...lost. I am a morning person, didn't you know?

As I waited on you, I had time to think; time to pace the chilled marbled tiles, giving my icy feet time to remember (and grieve for) the warm, Hawaiian sand they'd so recently burrowed beneath. I had time to worry...to fret over how many mornings alone I would spend during our time together--time to calculate that loss in not just days, but hours...minutes...seconds...moments...and loved ones. I looked outside. Not even the sun would shed its light; instead making me wait in momentary darkness. I felt you were closed entirely to me, Barcelona. Even your shops and markets had no warm welcomes for me this morning....signs seemed to scream in resolved solidarity: "CERRADO!" I was awake, alone.

Unaffected, you took your time. As mid-day approached, I (being nearly at my wits' end, and certainly almost out of patience) watch as you nonchalantly amble towards me. Slowly, you beckon your day to begin, acknowledging noon in an unhurried aside. I follow at your heels, anxious to see who you are; what you are all about; to discover why you are so beloved among your people. To possibly understand why those who arrange their entire lives just to stay near to you possess such fierce loyalty in your name.

You stroll down the street, round three corners, cross one plaza, and slow. Sidling up to an unassuming sidestreet cafe, you enter...no introduction necessary. This is your spot. Here your table is ready--your coffee and croissant are waiting to warm you. I eat as well, feeling energized by the welcome repast. Yet, still, I wonder what it is exactly that is so special about you. You seem so quiet; almost rude; arrogant in your way. I wait to see.

You settle the bill and I assume we are on our way. My heart drops as I watch you leisurely reach for the daily news, shifting your weight ever so slightly--settling in. We sit for what seems like hours, observing as people pass. Your neighbors, your friends, your colleagues...all greeting you in quiet nods and familiar double-kisses from cheek to cheek. Your streets begin to slowly grind their gears--street vendors pedaling their wares; citizens shifting their paces into one slow and steady, collective hummmmm (yet in a reserved and almost regal way). I begin to see glimpses of life in you, Barcelona.

We share a lite lunch in a little cafe, and you open up a bit more in conversation. Gestures are more animated, and your muscles along your jawline (as well as your stiff upper lip) become more relaxed. I think I may have even caught a brief and fleeting glimpse of a grin at one point.

I begin to get excited, but now, where are you going? "Siesta," you say?!?!? But...isn't that just an exotic and very European-ese way of saying..."NAP?!?!" (as in the kind I used to be forced to endure back in the day...in Mrs Frye's Kindergarten class...while relegated to an orange foam mat that I DISTINCTLY remembered smelling of a grievous mixture of urine and cheetos?...) Well, if so (and I sadly fear it is), to be quite honest, this idea of wasting so much of my day away when I could be getting to know you, leaves quite the same odious stink to my senses). * Boo *.... Yet, I humor you, and we place our days on hold as we sleep. * sigh *

We awake and, surprisingly I feel refreshed. Almost, yes, almost as if this is morning anew. YOU bounce out of your bed and leave ME in the dust! There is much to do, you say, as I dash after you. We make our way through the (now bustling) streets; streets awake and alive with people yelling, heralding their family and friends across the avenues. I dodge children and papas giggling through a frenzied futbol session in the square...watch as a tiny curl-crowned Spanish princess passes by, greedily gobbling up her gelato--a tiny pink trail of sticky sweetness the only evidence remaining of her afternoon's delight.

Arriving at the pub, we sit. We eat. We drink. We laugh. And..I watch you come alive...mingling, dancing, reveling in fellowship and light. It is not until now that I see you, Barcelona. You, to me, personify the very rhythm of your days. We got off to a slow start. I only felt darkness from you...until I understood and looked closer. You, too, shine....the moon to Hawaii's sun, you are now understood, and recognized, with respect and newfound wonder.

I collapse into bed as we return home. How about tomorrow, new friend, let's sleep until noon....

~Sound (Affects)~

Airports. Microscopic blinks. Brief, concentrated glimpses of this macroscopic world, and all those inhabiting it. I have always found them to be fascinating on so many levels. From fashion to finances, being a spectator as the spectrum of humanity colors my scope of sight, is such an eye-opening experience.

In fashion-forward Europe, where couture is king, it is not surprising that I would gravitate first to clothing commentary. Today, some people dressed for style (from 8 inch high stiletto heels and skinny jeans, to thigh high boots and barely-there mini skirts; fashion is always a factor here in Barcelona). Other people (such as myself) dressed more for *coughs* ...."comfort." (Yes, I assure you, I strategically planned this outfit--fully aware that I am in the mecca of mod). These jeans, sneakers and tee shirt are going to serve me well, and allow me the luxury of breathing, thank you very much...(and yes, they also just may announce to the entire European airport: "American tourist! American tourist!" )

Closing the fashion file, I make my way up the terminal stairs, surveying the crowd en route. Those who seem in a hurry (or perhaps just were inspired by a secret, undying affection for aerobic idol Richard Simmons and his sweatin' to the Oldies self) took the steps. Those who opted for the escalator, I noted, could be grouped into two major categories:

1) Those who were in a hurry, yet too lazy to take matters completely into their own hands (or feet?) and actually climb...they rather more were half-a**ing is, while hemming and hawing at the second group...

2) Yes, group number two...those poor, innocent bystanders who alighted the escalator fully secure in (and resolved to maintain) their stationary states. The longer I watched this parody of Truman-show transit, I realized that there actually kind of was a non-verbal (yet understood) "protocol" to this processional. Basically, if you weren't going to move your rump, you had better GET RIGHT!

Once I recognized this pattern, I decided to post myself off to the side and "Charles Darwin" it for a bit. For a good twenty minutes (seriously), I entertained myself with the emotional outbursts of "inconvenienced" travelers as the rump-resters refused to stay right, or * heaven forbid * absent-mindedly allowed any portion of their person to remotely venture into the left-hand lane. *Hem!**Haw!**Hurrumph!**Wheeze!**WAIL!** (and, yes, there actually was at least one distinct and gutteral wail). Sound effects make everything better, do they not? ;)

Finally tearing myself away from this asthmatic display of ire, I headed to find something to drink. As I was standing in line at the airport cafe, I noticed a striking difference in how much people were spending. I saw parents buying children 10 Euro grilled cheese sandwiches that would most definitely remain half-eaten (or find their way, in short order, to their final resting places on the sticky terminal floor). Others (like myself) were notably (not necessarily by choice, mind you!) more "frugal" with their funds. As I got to the cashier and reached into my purse, raising, with trembling fingers, the whopping 5.95 Euros to meet her open fist...I willed myself to NOT calculate exactly how much that worked out to be in American dollars. Sheesh....She smiled with me (okay, maybe she was actually more like laughing AT me)...but she "got it." As in, she knew exactly that I was thinking: "This better be some DAMN GOOD Arizona Green Tea!"

And here I sit, waiting for my plane to board...and sipping my 6 Euro Arizona Green Tea. I am present...soaking it all in...surrounded by style, spendthrifts, and yes, sound effects~

Funk-y~

I woke up this morning and was met with warmth and sunshine. I knew today was the day for my Parc Guell. I dressed with trembling excitement…fingers fumbling over zippers, buttons and laces; distracted by what laid ahead. Then…realization—I am alone. This beautiful, blissful experience…el solo~

I slumped back down on my bed and contemplated (not gonna lie….for at LEAST 5 good minutes) burrowing back under the covers in an Eeyore-esque pile of goo. Can we say funk?

I glanced over at my bag—my trusty little camera peeking out at me. I saw her eyeing me, judging me, taunting me in her cheery little chirp: “Pile of Funk!” “Pile of Funk!”…

I giggled despite myself (fully intending to wallow in my loneliness and “woe is me” mentality, thank you very much…) and dragged my arse across the room to pick her up gently. She hummed to life and began a delightful dance through the days of my past, stepping gracefully to the trilling tunes stored in her memory—the waters of home, baking/barista beauties, lions in winter, communal cups of coffee, bonfires with brothers, swimming with sisters, best friend beauticians, sunrises with mothers at Kahana Bay, English nerds, Club dancing divas, Contra comrades, bands of bikers, and Hawaiian hippies. Tears of remembrance and fullness stung my eyes.

I gingerly placed you all in the palm of my hand…grateful fingers stretching to receive the full beauty and breath of you. I curled my tiny fist around you tightly…and held on.

We go~

And to the loneliness and “el solo” mentality?..........

“ Funk That”~